


love me for the hell of it

by glittercake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Cheating, Comfort Sex, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, Mild Sexual Content, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Unhealthy Relationships, see pining tag again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercake/pseuds/glittercake
Summary: Sam hangs on Riley's every word, his every breath, and Riley acts like he's suffocating because of it. He never sees Sam, truly sees him, and Bucky is helpless with thoughts of what he'd do if that were him instead. Oh, how he'd love that man given half a chance. He loves him now, even this way, even with his hands empty and reaching.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, Riley/Sam Wilson
Comments: 29
Kudos: 128





	love me for the hell of it

**Author's Note:**

> Riley, I'm so sorry this ugly author would even do this to you 😂
> 
> Look, Riley--even though he's background--is not a nice guy in this, their relationship isn't good, and everyone is kind of messed up.

Sam shows up at Bucky's door.

He does so regularly- every Friday night, every time Riley decides he ain't coming home again. Every time they fight, and he doesn't know what else to do.

Sam shows up with those big brown eyes, and Bucky hurts for him. It's become a physical thing by now; he feels it in his bones. His eyes, pretty as they are, are red, and his lashes clumpy with tears from the drive over. 

And Bucky fucking hurts. 

It started a while back when Riley dumped Sam at a party to do God knows what. Bucky found him miserable and pissed off on the balcony, nursing a whiskey. Took him home, fucked him good and hard just like Sam asked. It was only a type of comfort back then, revenge, he guesses, just something they shared one night and wouldn't mention again.

But once wasn't enough; it was too good, just made him greedy. _Sam_ was too good. It was dizzying, addicting.

So it wasn't always like this, didn't hurt this way. It used to be an escape for both of them. It used to be satisfaction and lust and adrenaline sneaking around like this. He used to feel some kind of vindication fucking Riley's guy and then attending a party with them both the next week. A way to get back at him for having the one thing Bucky always wanted. He never got to liking him anyways.

It was just a thrill, the crazy loops of a rollercoaster, the moment it drops, and you scream at the top of your lungs then walk away with that rush bubbling in your veins like you've never felt before. 

He used to be able to watch Sam leave his bed and not feel a thing. 

Then, somewhere along the way, they never got off the rollercoaster, but the excitement still dwindled off, and Bucky was left alone in a dark apartment, sex in the air, the sheets still warm with Sam's body heat and the wretched sound of the door clicking shut behind him.

Somewhere along the way, he fell in love with Sam Wilson, and he can't fall back out. 

"What'd he do this time?" Bucky asks, rolls over naked as the day was born, and lights a smoke while Sam pulls his jeans up. 

The sheets are bundled in a mess at the foot of the bed, pillows strewn all over, wet in places where Sam bit into it just moments before.

Sam picks up the covers and drapes it over Bucky's bare middle, "Same old shit," a sidelong look passes Bucky's way, "You know." 

Bucky sits up, leans over to ash, and he knows he shouldn't say anything anymore. But he's a persistent fool, "I wouldn't treat you like that." he says.

The sidelong glance from earlier becomes sharper, almost playful, "Is that what this is?" Sam grins. Bucky has joked about this one too many times; he's not so sure Sam knows how serious he actually is. 

"We never talk about what it is..." 

Sam slips on his shirt, collects his belongings, and turns to Bucky with that apologetic goddamn look like he always does. "Because we shouldn't. _I_ shouldn't... I shouldn't be doing this."

"No. Because you always leave too soon." Bucky finishes. 

A little exasperated, Sam says, "You know how it is, man."

Bucky falls back on the bed, blows out another puff of smoke, and listens to the telltale sound of his front door clicking shut a few seconds later. 

"Yeah. Wish I didn't," he whispers to no one.

* * *

Bucky has tried before to get his mind off it. 

This time he meets some guy called Clint in a bar, good looking enough and eager plenty. 

But his downfall is always Sam; his weakness is the biggest part of him. He closes his eyes while Clint's on his knees in the parking lot outside and tries so hard to imagine blue eyes and spikey blonde hair, but his mind says, _'what if Sam saw you like this?'_ and he hates how he both wants it and dreads it.

He wants it because maybe then Sam would feel what _he_ feels when seeing Riley, maybe then Sam would love him back or get jealous enough to want him too. Get angry and possessive and leave that asshole and never leave Bucky's bed again. And he hates it for all those same reasons too. 

"Am I doing something wrong?" comes Clint's voice, a little nervous, a little impatient, still on his knees lapping at Bucky's half-flaccid dick. 

"Jesus, darlin' no, keep going." he lies. _You're just all wrong, sweetheart. You're not him._

And so he closes his eyes and thinks of Sam instead. 

His sweet-hot mouth, eyes like cassiterites blinking up at him, the look he gets when he swallows Bucky all the way down, when he does it with no hands, when he's breathless afterward. How entirely they belong together in those few seconds. Jesus Christ.

Clint chokes, whines, does something with his throat. Bucky refuses to look down at reality, and instead, he keeps thinking and imagining things he shouldn't until he comes. 

Sam's smiling up at him behind his closed eyes, his mouth's wet, and in this daydream, Bucky leans down and kisses him, and their limp bodies collapse tangled on the floor.

"Sam…" he whispers carelessly, too deep in his own head. 

Clint pulls away with one abrupt jerk, "What??"

Bucky shuts his eyes tighter, clenches his jaw, "I'm sorry…"

"Jesus," Clint starts getting up off his knees, leaving Bucky just like he deserves probably, "Jesus fucking Christ, man." he's furious and red in his face and embarrassed as all hell, and Bucky wants to fucking die.

"I'm sorry," he says again and berates himself for how he doesn't actually give a damn.

And Clint only gives him a long pitiful look if he's ever seen one.

Suddenly Bucky feels bare and exposed more than he already is, like all of his sins and secrets have been laid out in the open. Like Clint can see that there will never be anyone like that whispered name, and he can see just how ruined Bucky is about it.

"I hope you sort that out, dude. Whatever it is." Clint says, frowning, jaw tight, far more merciful than Bucky deserves. 

And god, how he wishes it was as easy as 'sorting it out.'

* * *

A mutual friend hosts her birthday at a bar a few weeks later. Bucky knew it was coming, and he'd been dreading it. 

Sam's here, so is Riley, and they're plastered together like candy in the summertime. So Bucky spends the night with a sick, twisted knot in his gut and avoids even looking at them.

Of course, Sam notices.

When Riley's chatting it up with the guys at the pool tables, Sam comes sauntering over to where Bucky's nursing his fourth Bourbon. And god, he's a sight, blue jeans and a baseball jersey that Bucky would hate if it were on anyone else. 

"Of all the places in all the world…" Sam says, a smile canted just so, soft, looking at Bucky as if he knows exactly how he breaks him. 

Bucky stares, he knows he does, he _always_ does. He swallows and reminds himself not to throw his arms around Sam, "Who would've thought, huh?" 

Sam sits far too close, slots his thigh between Bucky's, and takes every last breath from him. 

"How've you been, Barnes?" he says, his thumb drawing a secret circle on the back of Bucky's hand.

Bucky curls his hand around the back of Sam's knee, "Lost without you, dollface. Where'd you go?" he murmurs, watches Sam hang his head and laugh. He's devastating. All of him is devastating, and it kills Bucky up close like this. 

Sam's smile fades, and he looks over at Riley and says, "We're working on it. You don't help." with this sad, pitiful smile. 

"I know I don't," Bucky tells him, squeezing his knee. They're silent for a beat, it's not even awkward the way they're looking at each other, and Bucky doesn't even know how long they stay like that. "He treating you good?" 

Because if it's going to be this way, if he's going to hurt like this... if he's going to be left wanting for the rest of his life, then there's gotta be a good reason for it. Then Sam should be happy. He should have everything he's ever wanted; he should be whole.

But Sam takes far too long to answer. He takes far too long, and when he does answer, it's not a yes the way it should be. And there's that hidden, miserable expression again. Forever conflicted. 

"He tries. He's not ready." 

"To treat you right?!" Bucky blurts out in a tampered rage before he thinks better of it. "Sam, what the hell are you—"

"Shh! No. Jesus. To settle. He's not ready and—" 

"You are." Bucky finishes.

Sam shakes his head, looks at Bucky- at his lips, his eyes, his neck, and there's no doubt what he's thinking. Bucky sees those same flashes in Sam's eyes, flashes of them in bed, kissing, moving together, hands all over.

"Sometimes I'm not so sure," he says as if it hurts him too. 

And Bucky had been waiting longer than forever for anything like this, any morsel from Sam to say he felt the same, that he'd risk it, at the very least that he wanted to. 

"What?" Bucky whispers almost dumbly, eyes flicking between Sam's, "Sam, what are you saying?" his hand aches to reach up and touch, to even out the frown between Sam's eyes, kiss away the uneasy pull of his mouth.

"I don't… I can't…" Sam looks over to where Riley's standing, laughing loud and obnoxious, back turned to them. And then he's the one to reach up and touch, just a simple brush of his finger over Bucky's lips, "I _shouldn't."_

But he does. Bucky sees it all over his face, and it fills him with a delirious kind of happiness. 

"Come home with me," Bucky says. Doesn't care that it's ridiculous, and the answer will be no anyway. 

Sam turns his piercing gaze away and laughs. Makes Bucky want to cry just looking at him.

"I've gotta get back." he cocks his head to Riley, who's just shot them a glance from across the floor.

And so Bucky watches him walk away. Again. The way it burns in his chest is nothing new at all. He watches the rest of the night how Sam positions himself close to Riley and how Riley does everything in his power to move away from Sam. It's a brutal dance Bucky's seen one too many times. 

Sam hangs on his every word, his every breath, and Riley acts like he's suffocating because of it. He never _sees_ Sam, truly sees him, and Bucky is helpless with thoughts of what he'd do if that were him instead. Oh, how he'd love that man given half a chance. He loves him now, even this way, even with his hands empty and reaching.

Bucky downs two more tequilas and heads home before he has to watch them leave together. 

* * *

It's just past nine. His apartment's so high up it's flooded with moonlight, and Bucky's just lying on the floor sprawled out in his boxers staring at the endless ceiling. 

The room kind of spins and tilts as the alcohol floods to his brain, but he's enjoying it. Just thinking and imagining and wondering. Wishing's more like it, really. Knowing he'd eventually need to convince himself to let it go. To let Sam go. 

He sighs and rolls over to light up another smoke, lies down again once he's got it. He's busy exhaling a long puff into the air when his doorbell rings. 

Sam's standing on the other side, wet streaks down his cheeks, a furious scowl twisting his pretty face right up. 

Bucky opens his arms, because he always does, and Sam dives into his chest and clings to him.

"What happened?" He asks this every time, hoping the answer is 'I left him. He left me. It's over.' 

It never is, and this time's no different. 

"He hit the club with the boys." Sam sniffs, "Called me a cab from the party. Didn't even—" his chin does a dangerous wobble, so he keeps quiet instead. 

"He won't be home tonight then," Bucky says. He knows the routine by now. If Sam's lucky, he'll see Riley Monday morning before work. 

Against his chest, Sam shakes his head.

"You know what?" Bucky pulls away, holding Sam by the shoulders. "Neither will you." Sam's pupils blow wide. "Gonna take you out, honey, gonna show you such a good time tonight. You ain't wanna go home ever again."

Sam's laugh is tainted with tears and exhaustion. 

So Bucky pulls on some jeans and a shirt and grabs Sam by his hand on the way out. They go all the way uptown away from the club scenes. Closer to all the food markets and art shops, where the sidewalks are decorated with colorful flowers and fairy lights hang above them as they walk, where no one is asleep because there's too much to see.

He buys them each a meatball sub from the corner shop, and later a double swirl ice cream, and he watches Sam eat it with absolute delight. He walks them along the shore where the boats in the distance are just little blotches of light... and halfway to the pier, Sam's hand slips into his. 

On the way, he pulls them into a photo booth, and they mess around a few times before there's a good shot. Bucky feels like it imitates life far too accurately: Sam laughing, unaware, and Bucky staring at him like he's the moon hung against a backdrop of stars.

They're standing alone on the far end of the pier a little while later when Bucky turns to Sam, sliding his palms along Sam's jaw.

He holds his face just like that for a brief moment. They don't move or talk; they just stay looking at each other, and Bucky wonders: if they could say whatever they felt right now, what would it be? What would Sam tell him?

And then, before he thinks about it too hard, he leans down and kisses Sam.

It's just a soft shift of their lips. They've done it a million times before, hungry and heated and far too desperate to be tender. Never like this. 

There's something reverent about the way Sam kisses back now. Bucky thinks he knows what Sam would say if he could. If they could say anything without consequence tonight, Bucky thinks Sam would tell him that maybe he loves him too. 

Bucky doesn't know if that's the best thing he's ever known or something far, far more terrible.

"Take me home with you," Sam says, his eyes are still closed, and he's never been more beautiful. 

Bucky makes love to him that night. Not rough and hot like they always do when Sam's trying to forget something, but soft like the way they kissed earlier.

Bucky fucks him slow and dirty and makes it last. Kisses just about every inch of Sam's, skin runs his fingers over every sensitive spot he knows. He tells him he's gorgeous, gives him whatever he wants as many times as he wants. Then, when their faces are inches apart, eyes blow wide with adrenaline, Bucky kisses Sam's forehead and thinks, _god, I'd do anything for you._

And when they're depleted and breathless, and their lips are kiss-swollen, Sam rolls off him and leans down to kiss him again. Bucky holds on tight, begging him with touch alone not to go. Not to reach for his clothes, not to shut the door quietly behind him again and leave him here cold in the early morning hours.

"I need to—" Sam starts. 

But Bucky kisses his neck, "No, no, no. You don't. You don't need to do anything, sweetheart. Come on." and he keeps kissing Sam, keeps holding on. 

Sam makes a sound like moaning, indecisive but giving in to the feel of Bucky's mouth on his skin. 

"I'll do whatever you want." Bucky whispers, "Just stay with me."

Sam finally lies down beside him. He throws his leg over Bucky's waist and lets out a long sigh as he huddles closer to Bucky's naked body, and his eyes fall shut. 

For the first time since they started this, they fall asleep in each other's arms—the way Bucky had always wanted it to be.

* * *

His bed's empty when he wakes at noon the next day. 

There's no trace of Sam, and he wonders for a second if it was only a dream, but he finds the strip of booth photos from the night before on the pillow where Sam slept.

He doesn't bother getting out of bed.

* * *

Riley makes an Instagram post about Sam for the first time in his life.

It's just a photo of Sam sleeping between red satin sheets, but the caption reads "love of my life."

Bucky chokes. Or he cries. Might be both. But his phone goes flying across the room. 

_You have no idea what that word means,_ he thinks. His mouth tastes bitter and salty, and the anger is an ever present annoyance beneath his skin. He wonders how long it'll take for Riley to leave Sam again, how long until he leaves Sam alone for days with no contact. How long for a sweet gesture to become the precursor to an apology. 

He spends more and more nights at the bar. Can't stand the quietness all around his apartment, can't stand Sam's scent still clinging to his sheets, can't look at the photo strip stuck to his fridge of Sam grinning wide and bright with an arm around him. 

He's utterly miserable, and he doesn't know how to be better. In truth, he doesn't really want to be. 

One drunken night, he stumbles through his door and doesn't even make it to his bed. He trips and falls flat on his ass. And what else is there to do but laugh? What's left to do? He begged, he pleaded, he cried. But accept it? He can't. 

He doesn't think he'll ever be able to accept that he lost this one thing he's always wanted. One thing that has always been just an inch out of his reach. 

His vision blurs when he dials Sam's number with shaky fingers, and he's not sure if the blur is because of tequila or because he's crying again because neither seems to stop these days. 

It rings so long he's about to give up, when Sam answers.

He's whispering, nervous, "Bucky?" 

Bucky feels his lip turn downward, and this uncomfortable thickness fills up his throat. 

"Hey, dollface," he croaks, all raw and on the edge of cracking.

"What are you… it's one in the morning… You can't phone me here. He's—"

Bucky gives his cheek a harsh swipe, sniffs. "He's there, I know. I know. I just…" 

"Buck, you just what? What are you doing?" 

"I need to see you," Bucky says, and the truth spills over, "I fucking…I miss you—" 

"Bucky, I can't" 

"I love you, Sammy." There's silence on the other end. "I ever tell you that? Hm? Don't think I did."

"You're drunk," Sam says, a sudden realization, then sighs.

Bucky continues anyway, "It's okay. If you don't…" his voice breaks, "It's okay. Was never gonna be like that for us, I know. But I—" 

"Buck…"

"I know that I do. I love you."

"Buck! I gotta go! Don't call again!" 

The line beeps a long sullen tone, and Sam's voice is gone. 

By some mercy, he passes out soon after that and doesn't have to chew on those bitter morsels for too long. 

* * *

And then, after that night, he decides to stop living this way. He needs to let Sam go. He has to let go for his own sanity.

But letting go is impossible with the memory of Sam all over. So he starts by blocking his number. Then he gets new sheets, tosses the ones that smell like Sam to the back of his closet. He takes the picture strip off the fridge and throws it in the trash. He moves the lounge around because they fucked on the couch by the window once. He replaces the doorbell so he'd never have to associate that sound with Sam again.

That night he curls up in bed with sheets that smell like the store he got them from, faintly chemical, and he cries himself to sleep again. 

He promises himself it's the very last time.

The next morning it rains, and the wind whips harsh splashes against his windows. He wonders if God's mocking his mood, because fuck, that's what he feels like- thunderous and dark and miserable. For a long time, he sits in bed and stares at it, willing his thoughts to drift anywhere but to _him._

He succeeds for the most part. Now and again, Sam slips in- a flashy grin, slow blinking brown eyes, a joking voice telling him off, the way he used to sing along to old radio. But he pushes it away, turns up the t.v volume, gets up and makes coffee, avoids the trashcan, so he doesn't reach in to pull their pictures out. 

It's around six that evening when he wakes up from a nap on the couch and looks around, confused at what the hell the strange buzzing sound is until he remembers that's what the new doorbell sounds like. 

He rubs sleep from his eyes, ruffles his hair into something presentable at least, and zips his hoodie all the way up because he hadn't even bothered with a shirt that morning. Still, he feels completely transparent, as if whoever's outside will see the hollowness that has consumed him.

There's no way it'll be Sam. He knows that. So it doesn't matter that there's a little twinge down in the bottom of his heart that hopes to see smiling brown eyes, a teasing smirk. There's no way, and he knows that. He said goodbye, remember?

And so, when he opens the door, he can't help but stare. Because for a moment, it is _absolutely_ everything he's been wanting, it's exactly what he needs to end this misery he's in, to fix his heart right up. 

Sam says, "You blocked me." with a deep, gravelly voice and his eyes gentle on Bucky like he does, in fact, see it all, right down to his very center where it hurts the most. 

But he remembers the promise he made himself. That he'd never cry himself to sleep again, that he'd let go for his own good. And even though it hurts like goddamn hell, he's sticking to it even if it'll be the hardest thing he'll ever have to do; waking up alone again will be harder.

"Sam," he says, but his voice betrays him with an embarrassing waver, "I can't do this—" 

But then Sam smiles. He smiles and leans down to pick something up. He holds a large duffle bag up in front of him, and he's still smiling, but it's faltering fast, uncertainty tugging at his mouth corners. 

"I've been a fool long enough, been clinging to something that died a long time ago." Sam swallows and looks down, and Bucky just stands there with white noise in his ears and a thick throat. "I've been trying too long to make that into this." He motions between the two of them. "When this is… when _you_ are all I really want."

Bucky runs both his hands down his face, sucks in a deep breath, and stares at Sam.

"Buck, I'm sorry—"

And then Bucky surges forward and kisses him. Probably a little too hard, holds Sam's face in his hands, pulls him close, and keeps him there. Sam kisses back as he shuts the door behind them and drops the duffle bag to curl his fingers into Bucky's hoodie instead. It's unequivocally the best thing he's ever felt, like every last drop of doubt has been left out in the hallway.

They break away for breath when they hit the couch that Bucky moved around. Sam gives the empty spot near the window a strange look. Bucky just shrugs when Sam looks back at him, but he thinks the guy knows exactly why it's been moved. Can't look at it and not remember. 

Bucky falls back, and Sam straddles over his lap, and Bucky's hands can't help but ride up under his sweater and over his ribs, following the curves of his chest.

"You didn't let me talk the other night," Sam says; his eyes flick down to Bucky's mouth, and he drags his finger along the three-day-old stubble on his jaw. "When you called."

Bucky frowns at him, he remembers the call, but he doesn't remember anything else besides "don't call again."

"Yeah, what'd you wanna tell me, dollface?" 

Sam shushes him with a finger on his lips, grinning, and Bucky shudders all over.

"That I love you too."

He kisses Bucky again, deeper and surer, and when the next morning comes, and the sun creeps in through the open curtains, Sam is curled around his body like an octopus. His mouth's parted and beautiful, and his clothes are scattered all over Bucky's room. 

And the sheets smell just like him again. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr too: [glittercake](https://glittercake.tumblr.com/)


End file.
